a new poem: the priesthood of the passion

I was awakened by this, as it moved through me. And I saw it was good.

the priesthood of the passion

touching in ways I cannot comprehend my friend
let there never be an end, just an intensification.
a sensitization. a visitation to the presentation
of a sensation that blooms from the heart
to part parts of lovers now discovered
uncovered, merging urges purged in haste
when the taste of false gods called the odds
in empirical oracles of ordination of the ordinary.

this is a priesthood of the passions that fashion
themselves in honeysuckle and a flower I'd never known
except in dreams where you came to me, bare and brave
in flesh and fresh hopes and heavens I'd not visited
except in midnight memories of things that never were
but cure the stirring stab of loneliness unlike
licked and sticked unpicked petals that fell, wasted,
as we did, on battlefields of past pretense'd defenses.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

I live my life on a cliff, breathing the winds and staring into the abyss every second of every day. Not insane, but I gave myself over many years ago to the living of a life of earnest passion. It is lonely and lovely. But having lived in the grey, I have few regrets.